


Slow and Steady

by SilenceIsGolden15



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo 2k18 [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Gen, Prompt: Made a Slave, Slavery, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 21:32:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16003712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilenceIsGolden15/pseuds/SilenceIsGolden15
Summary: Keith is captured by Lotor and expects to be tortured. That isn't what happens.





	Slow and Steady

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags kids, this is a little dark.

The first few days went pretty much as he expected them to. Dark cell, little food or water, endless waiting for whenever Prince Lotor would deign to torture him. He had no illusions about a rescue mission-- the Blade didn’t run them, they were more likely to send a single operative to slide a knife between his ribs before he told them anything. And as for Voltron… well. They probably didn’t even know he was gone.

So when the cell door finally slid open after God knows how long, he was already prepping himself to find his own way out between torture sessions. But, unfortunately, that’s not what happens. 

Instead he’s hauled out of his cell and brought to a room with several what looked to be Galra servants. There he’s stripped out of his Blade uniform and dressed in nothing more than loose black pants. The silver cuffs fastened around his upper arms don’t seem to be anything but decoration, but the foot of solid chain linking his wrists is definitely functional. That and the heavy metal collar pressing painful bruises onto his collarbones. 

That’s when he figures out that the Prince Lotor has no intention of torturing him. 

Somehow, Lotor had realized that Keith was a paladin of Voltron. Whether it was from his own personal recollections or because one of his generals had remembered his face from one of their fights, he didn’t know, but Lotor knew and that made Keith far more valuable as a symbol than as a prisoner of war.

As Keith would figure out from listening to the people talk around him (ignoring him as though he was nothing more than a table lamp) Lotor was having some trouble holding on to his father's throne. And in a society like the Galra’s, there was no better way to prove your power than to find someone others respected, however begrudgingly, and subjugate them. So in the running theme of Keith’s shitty life, that wound up being him. 

His plan from the beginning was to lie low and try to figure out an escape route. No one would be coming for him so he had to do it himself, so he set himself to learning the rules. It didn’t take him long. 

When he spoke, he was struck. If he lagged too far behind when Lotor was dragging him around like a dog on a chain, if he looked too long at exit doors or stared too contemplative at the drones, he was yanked harshly by his collar, and if he wasn’t paying attention would wind up hitting the floor. Water was given every twelve hours and food every forty eight, and that must’ve been calculated so carefully as he could feel the weight dropping off of him as time went on. 

At night he was chained to the foot of Lotor’s bed. The chain was long enough to allow him to sleep on the bed if he so chose, and he considered it to try and earn Lotor’s trust, but every night he wound up choosing his pride and sleeping on the metal floor. 

Basically he existed to be a trophy and a punching bag. Lotor dragged him along to all of his war councils, forcing him to kneel at his side and sit while Lotor planned his strategy. Of course Keith took this time to listen and try to learn how Lotor’s mind worked as much as possible-- this information could be useful when he got out. Of course it wasn’t always easy; he was often distracted by Lotor taking his anger out on him when his subordinates were being difficult. 

Sometimes he’d fist his clawed hand into Keith’s hair and twist when someone talked back to him. Other times those claws would dig into the back of his neck until little pinpricks of blood welled up. When someone questioned his authority or his strength he liked to be more visible about it-- usually it was his fist falling heavily onto Keith’s shoulder, usually catching him off guard and making him wince. 

His shoulders were soon a blooming rainbow of bruises, layered on top of each other and in various stages of healing, interrupted by the endless deep purple of the bruises left by the collar and the scabs along the nape of his neck. 

And those were the good days. 

On bad days he’d be dragged back to Lotor’s quarters, and the Prince would drop his imperial demeanor and show what a monster he really was underneath. Keith became exceedingly familiar with the feeling of a whip biting into his skin, and the marks left behind all over his torso had nothing to hide them from the eyes of every other Galra in the palace. 

The days dragged on. At first Keith tried to keep track of them by the schedule of food and water, but there was no sun or moon in the middle of space and even with that he soon lost count. He tried to keep sharp, tried to keep an eye out for escape possibilities, but the walls of Central Command were like a blank, never changing canvas. There weren’t sentient guards to screw up their rounds or miss details-- drones were always on time and never left doors open or fell asleep on duty. The more days that slipped by unchanging, the more Keith could feel himself slipping away with them.

He began to drift during war meetings, no longer listening to the droning voices of the Generals but merely staring at a fixed point on the wall until the pain brought him back. He daydreamed; thought back to the lessons he’d had at the Garrison, imagined the other paladins bickering in the common room, the Blades exchanging warm nods with one another as they passed down the halls. 

He stopped expending the energy required to glare at Lotor. Most of the time he just stared at the floor and didn’t find it worth it to back talk when Lotor started jabbing at him with his words. He kind of… disconnected, let a grey blanket descend over him and let him drift through the days without feeling. He’d done this before, after his dad, after Shiro, and now the old familiar coping mechanism was all too easy to fall into.

Lotor seemed to like this new change in him, and one night he decided to chain Keith at the head of his bed rather than the foot. Keith was confused, until Lotor pulled him onto the bed beside him, pressing himself flush up against Keith’s back. His skin prickled all over.

Keith had weird things with touch. Always had. He craved physical affection from his friends, but if someone he didn’t know so much as brushed up against him he’d bristle. This was basically hell on Earth, feeling Lotor’s claws tracing threatening figures over his abdomen and exposed ribs, the awful clinging texture of his hair over Keith’s shoulder. Despite this he held still, only cringing a little when his breath puffed over the nape of his neck.

He didn’t sleep a wink that night, but for the first time in a while an inkling of a plan was brewing. If Lotor kept this up, if he played along long enough, eventually Lotor would let his guard down and Keith could strike. Strangle him with his chains, smother him with a pillow, something. 

The next morning, while Keith is nibbling on his packet of every other day purple food goo, he listened as Zethrid helped Lotor into his armor and murmured questions to him.

“So he is now serving as your… bed warmer, Your Grace?”

Lotor scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Only in the most literal of ways, if you must know, Zethrid. He’s not ready for that yet. Maybe in a phoeb or two.”

And… that really didn’t scare him as much as it should have. 

Some days later (Keith didn’t know how many) Lotor dragged him down to a new room-- a war council chamber three times the size of the normal one. This made him perk up for a bit for the first time in awhile. If this many people were being summoned at the same time it had to be something important. Maybe even about Voltron.

But that wasn’t the only thing that was different. Once all of the glowering Galra generals were in their places, instead of immediately beginning the council, Lotor got to his feet. 

“As you all know,” He began in that ridiculous pompous accent, “This meeting is the first part of a momentous step in the advancement of the Galra empire. But I understand that my methods are… controversial, and I expect tempers to flare. So, instead of going through the trouble of punishing every single one of you who acts out--”

With one hand he grasped the chain attached to Keith’s collar, roughly hauling him to his feet, and now his heart beat is starting to pick up, because he’s never done this before. He can feel every single golden gaze in that room, every predatory glare, and for the first time in months he’s actually afraid of what’s about to come. He’s already covered in bruises from the night before when Lotor had taken out his anxiety about the meeting on him. He has a terrible nagging feeling that whatever’s going to come is going to be even worse. 

“For the duration of this meeting, I’m putting my pet here at your disposal. Zethrid?” 

The large general came forward to collect him, hauling him none too gently over to a metal structure that had been erected in the corner of the room. There he was pushed back to his knees and his arms were pulled above his head to be fastened to the metal bar that stretched over it. 

Keith drew in a deep, steadying breath. He could handle the pain-- it would be tough, but he could handle it and try to remember some of what he heard. He’d been complacent for too long. 

Then Zethrid roughly tried a strip of cloth around his eyes, and his stomach dropped. It was followed by another scrap being forced between his teeth, cutting into the edges of his mouth when she tied it too tight, and two more small wads being shoved into his ears.

Sound immediately muffled and the last little bit of resistance in him creaked as it threatened to shatter. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, couldn’t speak-- couldn’t collect info, couldn’t see the pain coming. So, in a word, useless. 

Pain is so much worse when you can’t predict it’s arrival. Even the crack of the whip before it descended was muffled, even though it was right behind him. It took nearly no time at all for him to lose track of the strikes, and then time began to slide together so that he couldn’t even tell how many people had taken a turn with him. Without the rest of his senses everything narrowed down to sensation. 

Burning pain from whip lashes. The leftover aches from the bruises. The chill and cut of his knees on the floor. Binds biting into his wrists. Warm blood seeping over his bare skin. Eventually he sagged, let his head fall forward, and as the whip tore into him he tried his damn best to just let go and pass out already. 

He’d been here for so long. He just wanted it to be over. 

How long had it been since the last set of lashes? He had no idea. Maybe he had passed out for a little bit there. It was kinda hard to do when it was just as dark whether you had your eyes open or closed. 

Suddenly there’s a new sensation: hands, more than one set of them, grasping at the binds around his wrists, and he flinched but of course he was tied in place and couldn’t get away. 

The gag was pulled from his mouth first while the second set of hands still fiddling with the binds. He didn’t try to say anything, merely swallowed a few times to soothe his aching throat. The blindfold went next but Keith didn’t open his eyes. The last thing he wanted to see was Lotor’s smirking face when everything hurt like this. 

The ear plugs were the last to go, and Keith’s world  _ exploded _ . 

All around the building alarms were blaring, metal walls bouncing and amplifying the sound so that it drilled right into his head. Without thinking he yanked his hands down to cover his ears now that the bindings had been loosened, only to let out a hoarse scream at the pain that lanced through his shoulders and rippled over his back. 

Voices are near him, babbling over the alarms and he can’t understand a damn thing they’re saying, but a moment later the hands are back, textured rough and covered by gloves, and then he’s being lifted over someone’s shoulder.

He keeps his eyes closed until he passes out again. 

* * *

_ Hiss _ .

The sound of a healing pod releasing. Immediately he knew it wasn’t a Galra pod, because he didn’t hurt anywhere, and Lotor always pulled him out just a minute too soon so that he could keep the scars and the lingering pain. That and the lights-- they were so bright he could see them through his closed eyelids. A pair of arms is there to catch him as he tilted out of the pod, and the person who caught him settled them both on the floor. 

Keith still didn’t open his eyes. 

He’d had this dream before. Half a dozen times he’d woken up falling out of pod in the Castle, and when he’d opened his eyes Shiro would be there holding him, looking him over with that remorseful look in his eyes. 

And Keith would cry and nearly break with the relief. Then Shiro, still with that sad look, would carefully slide the collar around his throat, thin and white with blue accents in the Altean style. And in a low voice Shiro would explain to him that he was too broken to be useful anymore, that he couldn’t return to the Blade after being compromised and that none of lions could accept someone who’d given into the enemy the way he had. 

He wouldn’t fight. After all, the paladins got stressed too and there was no better way to vent than to take it out on someone else. 

“Keith?”

He let out a shaky breath. He didn’t want to open his eyes, he didn’t want to play out this dream again. He’d rather just sink back into unconsciousness, thanks. 

“K-keith, please look at me.”

That wasn’t right. Shiro wasn’t supposed to sound that choked up. Sad and resigned, sure. But not genuinely regretful. Sheer curiosity is what makes him finally open his eyes.

And Shiro is… crying?

That’s not how the dream is supposed to go. 

“Keith… I…” Now that he’s actually got Keith’s attention, Shiro doesn’t seem to know what he wants to say. “I’m… I’m  _ so sorry _ .” 

Shiro clutched Keith to his chest and cried, and Keith, not knowing if he believed it was real or not, just sat there.

He didn’t say anything. 

* * *

The worst part wasn’t how skinny Keith was. It wasn’t the silvery scars of whip lashes over his back. It wasn’t his blank expression or how he didn’t utter even a word. No, the worst part was that they hadn’t even known it was happening. They hadn’t known Keith had been missing for three months, and if Pidge hadn’t insisted on inspecting the faint remaining heat signature in that room, they wouldn’t have found him at all. 

The event had the entire team shaken. Allura and Pidge had spent the better part of four hours on the comms, tearing Kolivan into little itty bitty pieces for not telling them when Keith had disappeared. Coran and Hunk fussed over him, Coran doing scan after scan after scan to make sure Keith was healthy, and Hunk making damn sure he was sticking to the food schedule he’d created. 

Lance hovered near the edges, never taking his eyes off of Keith for long, as though he was trying to atone for them not noticing he was gone. And Shiro…

Shiro had no idea what to do. 

They didn’t know what Keith had been through. Two weeks after the rescue and he still wouldn’t talk. Most of the time he seemed to be in a daze, and Shiro didn’t know how to break him out of it. He had trouble sleeping, he knew that much. More than once he’d gone into Keith’s room in the night to find him half dozing on the floor rather than in his on bed. 

Shiro understood. He used to do that too. 

One day Lance came to fetch him, a confused and worried look on his face, and Shiro hastened to follow him down to the lounge. There he found Keith sitting on the floor next to the sofa, on his knees, arms held behind him. He didn’t look up when Shiro entered the room, he just kept staring at the same part of the wall. 

“Thanks, Lance.” He murmured to the other boy before moving forward. 

Keith didn’t move until Shiro knelt in front of him, and even then it was only to cast his eyes away from Shiro’s face. 

Shiro’s heart was breaking in his chest for the hundredth time. He  _ hated  _ this. Seeing Keith like this… it was his worst nightmare. 

“Keith? Can I touch you?” 

He always asked, and Keith always blinked just like that, as though surprised. He still didn’t speak, but he nodded just slightly. So Shiro reached out for him, pulled him close, and like always he remained stiff as a board, not relaxing into it the way he always had before. 

“It’s ok, Keith.” He whispered into his hair. “You’re gonna be ok.” He’s not sure who he’s telling it to-- Keith, or himself. 

Keith let out a huff, and would it be wishful thinking if Shiro thought it was a little louder than normal?

A moment’s hesitation, and then something was curling into Shiro’s shirt, and tears literally welled up in his eyes when he realized it was Keith’s hand. Then Keith tilted his head to tuck in against Shiro’s neck. It was barely an inch of movement, but for Shiro it was near miraculous, and he gave Keith a good squeeze as thanks.

“Everything’s going to be alright.”

Eventually. 


End file.
